


Yuri Goes On An Adventure (And Back Again, Perhaps)

by Argeus_the_Paladin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-16 06:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13630980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argeus_the_Paladin/pseuds/Argeus_the_Paladin
Summary: For all the world knew, Yuri Plisetsky had perished at his moment of greatest triumph. But there is more to his tale, which will be recounted in time: A tale quite extraordinary that involves a hobbit, a wizard and thirteen dwarves out to reclaim an ancestral home.





	1. Prologue: An Unexpected Death (And Rebirth)

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, some initial disclaimers and general notice:
> 
> 1) All copyright-related disclaimers apply. In particular, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion and all related works were the property of The Good Professor J.R.R. Tolkien and presently belongs to The Tolkien Estate and other copyright holders as are applicable. Yuri!!! on Ice, initially made by MAPPA, belongs to its current copyright holder(s) as applicable. I owe nothing but the desire that "good stories deserve a little embellishment" (J.R.R. Tolkien).
> 
> 2) This is perhaps the first fanfic that I've written not just for myself, but three wonderful people in my life. This is reflected first and foremost in the choice of fandom, and second in the choice of character. This leads to:
> 
> 3) This is going to be a very nonstandard crossover. It is quite, not least given my meager ability, impossible to merge the settings of Yuri!!! on Ice and anything Tolkien had written in a manner that is equally respectful and faithful to both - the subject matters being so different, as are the corresponding mindset behind each work. Here my biases show: As I am more a writer of epic fantasy rather than of sports stories, so in this fanfic the Professor's work will accordingly be represented the more. In particular, Yuuri and Victor here receive very little screentime, if they do at all (Although to quote the Professor again: Tales grow tall in the telling, and if the beloved couple do show up, well, anything goes).
> 
> Having said that, all sorts of comments and criticism very much welcomed, harsh or otherwise. That's how you grow and mature, after all.
> 
> 4) This story enjoys a similar, but not identical, premise to my other large work on AO3; A Reploid's Journey: There and Back Again. The difference lies upon the fact that Yuri Plisetsky and Zero are two completely different characters (aside from the obvious), from two completely different settings, resulting in wildly different interaction with the same canon.  
> 5) As the summary hints, the story begins with Yuri dying. Consider this a fair warning.
> 
> All being said, do enjoy your stay here. I hope you'll enjoy reading this story as I have writing it.

**Prologue**

**An Unexpected Death (And Rebirth)**

***

 

For all the world knew, Yuri Plisetsky had perished at his moment of greatest triumph.

It was a tragedy, one might say, and as was the wont of most tragedies were good only for gossip and posterity. In another twenty years, fifty, or perhaps longer still historians would still write about the day a large piece of debris fell in the middle of that year's figure skating Grand Prix Final. As if by an act of God Russia's best hope in the sport was killed instantly, crushed under several tons of concrete – during what would have been his finest hour.

In the manner of his death, in the circumstances, even in the timing itself, Yuri's tragedy was oozing with _pathos_. It was no surprise, then, the unfortunate hero's funeral was remarkably well-attended.

There were his coaches Yakov and Lilia, who had never thought they would live to see their brightest's funeral.

There were Yuuri Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov – his adversary, his idol and his friend, though which was which had now become all too blurred.

There was his only real friend Otabek, who did not cry in public, and there was his fellow teammate Milla, who did.

There was his grandfather Nikolai, a dying bear as he was, bent and slow and silent as he trailed after the procession.

There were many a Russian everyday person, fond of sports as they were.

Reports on his death and then his complete history (embellished as was the way of the press), dominated the papers for a week or so. The hashtags #JusticeForYuri and #GoldForYuratchka went viral overnight, and in time would become part of the endless internet legends for all posterity.

Still, the life and death of a sportsman had that unfortunate habit of slipping into oblivion in a blink of an eye. Fickle as they were the public would soon find a new object of worship. Acquaintances would find new friends, new rinkmates, new adversaries. Coaches would move on to greener pasture, for there always were newer, younger and better generations to come. And the internet, well, the internet was the internet.

Only kin and kith would remember, but they too would grow old and die – and of that Yuri only had his grandfather. Nikolai Plisetsky died alone, too, just as snow in Russia gave way to _Rasputitsa_. Whether it was old age or a broken heart that claimed him nobody knew for certain.

Now one might say, 'But Yuratchka doesn't deserve such an end!' Well, whether he did or did not, that was up to popular interpretation.

Nonetheless, whether such was indeed his end, well, that remained to be seen. After all “Not even the very wise could see all ends,” as a wise man once said.

As it so happened, with an unexpected end came an equally unexpected beginning.

***

When Yuri heard a “Good morning” by his ears, his first sensation was intense discomfort. The place he'd fallen asleep on was hardly a bed, but some sort of uneven surfaces cobbled together without much rhyme or reason. His spine felt bent just simply by lying there, wedged between two pieces of unmatching mattresses.

He proceeded to twist and turn and stretch and flip... and flop! He fell face-down on a merciless wooden flooring with a thud. _It hurts!_

“Why, my good fellow, take care, take care!”

He blinked and blinked, and rubbed his eyes hard. 

“W-w-w-what the  _hell_ are you?”

_What the hell_ indeed. Before Yuri stood some kind of a... creature, best described as a man suffering from such terrible genetic defect, his height so stunted, it would take two of him to stand as tall as one Yuri (and the boy had not even been fully grown yet). His head was rather round, as was his belly. His hair was brown and well groomed, and the same could be said for the hair on his... _bare_ _feet_?

Hammer blow number one.

“Ah, but of course,” said the midget, bowing politely. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Now Yuri was fumbling and stumbling and shuffling back to his feet. He broke into a leap, force of habit rather than anything. (Un)surprisingly his head hit the ceiling with a solid clonk. “Ouch!” he yelled, and fell back down on his behind. 

The midget shuffled closer, and took Yuri's hand. “Stand up, stand- oh, silly me, I do mean keep your head down, that's a good man,” he said with a certain degree of excited befuddlement in his voice. He grabbed Yuri's hand with his admirably big hands (for his overall size) and dragged him back to what  _seemed_ like a chair.

“W-where am I?” he murmured. Part of him was still trying to digest the whole Bilbo Baggins part and could not contribute any brain-power. Yuri was sounding like a right airhead as a result, for which he felt like kicking himself.

“This lovely place here's called Bag End,” said the creature. “Best smial in Hobbiton, if I have to say so myself!”

“Hobbiton?” parrotted Yuri. “Not Barcelona?”

The creature furrowed his brows. “Bar-se-lo-na? Never quite heard of it (and I hope I should never have to go there!)”

Hammer blow number two.

At once Yuri felt faint in the head. “But... but... but... the rink... the free skate... THE GRAND PRIX FINAL?!?”

“Not a clue, my good man,” said the creature. “I beg your pardon.”

In other words, hammer blow number three.

It took Yuri exactly sixty-eight seconds to put everything together. And then the concrete sheet pile that was Yuri Plisetsky imploded. Cracked. And shattered into a million pieces.

“This... this... this...” he stammered. “THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING!”

The entire room quaked.

***

In a hobbit-hole in the ground – which meant comfort – a respectable hobbit was entertaining a new and wholly unexpected guest.

Mister Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, as this hobbit was known in miles, was particularly fond of visitors, those who did not carry with them queer businesses or sinister prospects at any rate. Slightly less fond he was of visitors who were of the Big Peoples. These, to his knowledge, were usually folks too fanciful, too mysterious or otherwise too abnormal – and therefore not very conducive to said respectable hobbit's good reputation. 

But that did not mean he would turn away Big Folk visitors. Let alone this one fellow, obviously a young lad in need of help. Bilbo was a Baggins of Bag End, and a Baggins' door would not turn away people in distress. 

In so doing Bilbo had overlooked pretty much everything queer about him. How his hair was inordinately long (for a male) and all tousled up. How he was dressed, which was a skin-tight garment that may well make the mannish waitresses down in Bree blush. Or how his manners was so terribly... lacking even by mannish standards. 

Quietly he thanked Yavanna and Eru, that the youth was hardly injured. He was no physician, and looking for a rightly good one might have taken a while. 

That didn't mean the boy was no trouble, however.

Now he wasn't screaming and shouting and threatening to kick Bilbo's head off any more. His mood had shifted from “incensed and hateful towards all that lived and breathed” to “incredibly annoyed and flummoxed”. His face making such an expression as he'd swallowed – not smoked – a large handful of Old Toby. Bilbo thought it was a good start as any, and sat down opposite to the boy. 

“Let's recap,” said the boy, “you found me lying in a heap down a hill.”

“The Hill, yes,” said the hobbit. 

“And you dragged me all the way to this sh-... this  _hole_ .”

“Me and my good gardener Hamfast Gamgee – that's a good chap,” said Bilbo. “Took us a while; never was an easy business moving you Big People about and around especially when a slope is concerned!” 

“Okay, okay, fine, fine, enough with the theatrics!” the boy said, waving his hands. “Now what on earth was I doing there lying in a heap?”

“Gracious me, that's supposed to be my question!” said Bilbo. “For one, as your host I should like to know who you are, where you came from and how you'd got yourself into such a predicament-”

“Host? I didn't  _ask_ to stay in your hole!” cried the boy. 

Bilbo grimaced deep inside, yet he did not stop. “-And for the other, it would be better for the both of us if you'd calm down a bit-” 

The boy rolled up his sleeves. “I  _am_ already calming down!”

“Well, calm down a bit  _more_ then, because you don't look too peaceable yet!” said Bilbo. “Would be good for you and for me if you can recall  _what_ happened before, well, that unfortunate incident.”

Bilbo heard a loud string of gurgling sound from the youth's throat. He rubbed his temples, long and hard. 

At long last he let out a sigh. “Like I said. Figure skating. Grand Prix Final. Barcelona..”

“Yes, you have. Strange name for perhaps a strange place, and I do find that intriguing! let me double-check my atlas in a minute,” said Bilbo. He tapped his thick forefinger on his scalp. “And what in particular is this  _figure skating_ ?”

The boy gasped. “Wha? Oi, have you been living under a rock or what?” And then his eyes went blank – Bilbo would wager he'd just realized something particularly traumatic.

And trauma, thought the hobbit, was best fought with humor. “That's not wholly incorrect, I suppose,” said Bilbo with a chuckle. His homestead  _was_ a literal hole in the ground, after all – just neither the kind of nasty, dirty, wet hole, nor a dry, bare sandy hole. 

Then there was that bit of troubling movement in the boy's feet, and Bilbo had more than half a mind to back off a couple step – should his guest actually tried kicking him. He decided that would be the pinnacle of discourtesy and did nothing of the sort. 

This one time Bilbo assumed right.

The young charm folded his arms and wore his best cheese-curdling scowl on his (admittedly quite handsome) face. “Great, stuck in the middle of nowhere-country with a midget who doesn't even know what skating is  _and_ has to look up a map to find bloody Barcelona. If it even exists here!”

This, Bilbo decided, was as good a time as any to put his foot down. “The proper word, my good young sir, is  _hobbit_ , and I do implore you to  _use_ it.” 

The visitor looked around the place, up and down, left and right, and back at Bilbo. “Tch, fine,  _fine_ ! Hobbit it is,” he growled, wearing the same ugly scowl. “Whatever the hell that means.”

“Language, my dear lad,” said Bilbo with due disapproval. “Some manner is all I ask for, as you are in my rather respectable home.” His voice mellows down. “But enough of that, I hope. Now that we've got the manner part down, would you mind sharing what exactly happened next?”

“How the f-” Yuri quickly censored himself. “I mean, how should I bloody  _know_ ?” He huffed. “Heard a crack, sure, and then something like screams. Thought the crowd was just going wild.”

The boy clutched his head. Bilbo thought he could  _hear_ the lad's veins throbbing. 

Then he stared at the ground. “And then everything went black.” he murmured. “Then I woke up. C-can't remember anything else.” 

At that very moment Bilbo's ears caught the sound of something rumbling, followed very quickly by the boy doubling over and clutched his tummy. Not in pain, from his flustered expression, but in embarrassment. 

His guest may or may not know the fact, but few things would move a hobbit's pity as much as seeing someone in hunger. “Well, look at the time! Tea's at four, I say! Would you like something for tea? A scone or seed-cake, or an apple tart perhaps? I could get you some good old bacons, eggs and toast, though nobody with any sense would take those for tea!”

For a moment Bilbo looked at the guest with his most kindly eyes – and his gesture was honest. At long last the boy rubbed his forehead and returned his gaze. “Pirozhkies,” he said.

“Piroskies?” Bilbo repeated, and from the face the boy was making the hobbit thought he'd mangled the pronunciation rather badly. Which was of course not his fault, though Bilbo doubt he could convince the boy that much.

“Stuffed bread,” said the boy with a sigh.

“Ah, then why didn't you say so?” said Bilbo with genuine relief. “Hold on there, I've got just the right stuff...”

***

Sausage rolls.

Not grandpa-made pirozhkies, but not  _too_ far off. Had his initials been something like J. J. and/or had he been suffering from chronic narcissism, Yuri would have better appreciated the treat. But then hunger was indeed the best sauce: there he was already chomping down on the food faster than an industrial-grade steel grinder before the midg-  _sorry, hobbit's –_ wide open eyes. 

By the time Bilbo Baggins (was that his name?) came back with a steaming teapot, Yuri had already done away with the fourth roll and was getting started on the fifth; in a way that terrified him no less. He  _was_ channeling the  _Katsudon_ spirit more than he'd have ever liked.

Speaking of  _Katsudon_ , the only time Yuri had been  _more_ angry in his life was when that piggy said something-or-another about retiring once he'd hit gold. That was a short while back, and he had by no means quite gotten over it yet. 

Having thought as much, food  _did_ have a way of placating his raging adolescent mood. He grabbed the teapot by the handle, and poured himself a brimming cup, and emptied the content in a single gulp. 

Life seemed good. Or at least not as bad as it had been just that last.

For a time the hobbit sat quietly and regarded Yuri from top to toe. The Russian skater was doing quite the same. 

Now that he'd calmed down somewhat, Yuri noted that the hobbit was, aside from his size and his aversion to footwear and his funny carpet of feet-hair, rather like one of those wealthy middle-aged people, the sort of which he'd seen rather often in his life. He was well-dressed, clad in a rich yellow vest and bright green pants, both embroidered with patterns of flowers and leaves. As for his face, well, once Yuri got used to the proportion Bilbo Baggins wasn't an eye-sore to look at. His eyes were bright, his expression soft, his ears mildly pointed and partially hidden behind his curls.  _So like one of those 'Epic Fantasy' stuff all over the market then. Pah, never much cared for the sort._

And then there was something within the hobbit that made Yuri feel... relaxed. Like he'd never harm a fly unless you'd pretty much force him, and even then he'd prefer to run and hide rather than stand and fight. 

It was a while after Yuri had swallowed the last bite when the hobbit shifted a little on his chair. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “What did you say your name was again?”

Again? That was funny. Yuri never did say what his name was.  _Ah well, better late than never_ . “Yuri,” he said. “Yuri Plisetsky.” Then he looked at the floor, not knowing what else to stay about himself.

The hobbit did not stop regarding him. “Would you mind telling me more about this figure-skating business?” he asked. “It sounds like a mightily fascinating performance art.”

Performance art? Deep inside Yuri was laughing.  _Ha-ha-ha, what ignorance_ . 

And then the internal laughter faded. “Yeah, well, that's not  _wrong_ .” He thought some more, and added. “A sport and a performance art.” He scratched his head and wondered which way to best convey the message. “Just... picture this: You dance on ice. They give you points based on how well you perform certain... maneuvers. Most points win.”

“I see,” said the hobbit, “Quite fascinating, if I should say so myself.” He paused, drew a breath and continued. “And you are, I presume, someone who practice this figure-skating trade?”

For a time he said nothing, due to his blankness of mind rather than any profound thought at all. “The best there is,” Yuri finally said. 

With the next breath came deeper thought. 

It wasn't pretty. “Doesn't matters now does it?” he barked.  _No, it doesn't. Not if I can't go back home._ His heart sank at the realization.

“Perhaps that business wouldn't matter to you any more,” said Bilbo. “Though I know a good plenty else that may, my dear lad, even more if you know where to look.”

Good plenty else? 

Well now, that was just cruel and mean.

“Well...” said Yuri. 

His voice trailed off. He sighed again. His eyes went blank, he crossed his legs, and buried his head in his palms. All of a sudden coherent thoughts seemed so hard to come by.

Whatever he  _could_ think of were incredibly negative – and that was an understatement. 

_With_ skating Yuri Plisetsky was a lot of things. Prodigy. Artist. Creator. Expresser. National hero (of a sort). Even like a god unto himself in a way – in fact his last performance was like some sort of apotheosis through the expression of emotions into jumps and spins and flips. 

More importantly, Yuri Plisetsky was  _Yuri Plisetsky_ , if only because he didn't know any other way he could express himself. Make himself useful.  _Be_ himself.

_Without_ skating? He'd cease being all of the above. Hell, cease  _being_ period. Without its frost-covered hunting ground the Ice Tiger stopped being an Ice Tiger. Yuri would be just a pretty-looking bum who'd kick down doors in the public restroom, and that was hardly worthy of pride unless he'd had some sort of talent to back it up.

Then there was also that equally terrifying realization: if he was no longer around for whatever reason...

That meant Katsudon had won gold. 

That meant the idiot had probably retired. Back to his backward castle-town by the sea where the (figurative) sun wouldn't shine. 

That meant he'd dragged  _Victor_ to whatever pig-sty he'd fancy wallowing in. The thought of Victor Nikiforov settling down in an out-of-the-way Japanese hot spring for good made him see red, for reasons he wasn't sure he completely understood himself. 

Worst of all, that meant Yuri could do all of nothing to stop it.

That sound he just heard, suspiciously like china shattering, was whatever left of Yuri Plisetsky smashed to microscopic bits, set on fire, dumped into lava and tossed into the sun for good measure. 

“Damn,” was all he could manage to say. “Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!”

The hobbit raised his brows at all the swearing, but otherwise made no further admonishment. “Whatever happened to you,” he said. “I could only guess, but it probably was quite unpleasant. Though I wouldn't wish upon anyone, not even the Sackville-Bagginses at their worst! If there's something I can help, well, you need but ask.”

Yuri resumed his ragged breathing. 

Oxygen filled his lungs. 

Oxygen was good – in the sense that it facilitated clearer thoughts.

“Look here, mid- I mean, hobbit,” he exhaled loudly as if to make a point. “What I should do, you ask? I sure as hell don't know.” He paused. “Yeah, sue me.”

“I see,” said the hobbit, pinching his chin. And then he looks up with a big, friendly grin. 

_Disturbingly_ friendly. Not even going into that part that the... well, the  _person_ was not even human to begin with, part of Yuri had expected to be yelled at for his rudeness. Heck, he would have  _liked_ to be yelled at, so that he would have some sort of  _casus belli_ to resist. To be mad  _at_ that person. To have someone to be angry at rather than himself. 

“How would you like to stay, and help me around the place?” he said. “Mine's a large smial, and there's always something to do and fix.”

Yuri's eyelids jittered. “What, like a household servant?”

“I would not put it that way, no,” said the hobbit. “But until you know where to go next or what to do, I would be happy to give you a place to sleep, and meals plenty and often.” He looked him in the eye, with a smile that looked almost fatherly. “You seem a good young lad, Big People or not; I thought it would be good for you (and half as good for me) if you should feel you're earning your board and breakfast.”

Yuri scratched his head once more. “Oh.” 

Now that made sense. He  _really_ had nowhere to go, and he'd forgotten his wallet in the changing room. Even if he  _had_ brought some money, he'd bet all his medals all his notes and coins would be useless in this here place, and his credit card too. And even if he could, well when the funds dry, what then? Poor Yuratchka had no real marketable skill outside of the rink, not in the real world and certainly not in this... place, whatever it was.

And yes, he  _would_ eat his skate before he'd reduce himself to eating without paying.

Now is, perhaps, a good time to note one thing of Yuri Plisetsky: he was neither an idiot (as his coach might say often) nor suicidal (as his  _other_ coach might say slightly less often). He was, contradictorily, a surprisingly stubborn yet equally surprisingly  _malleable_ teenager, physically or otherwise, when push came to shove. The last part couldn't be stressed enough.

Rational thoughts resurfaced within Yuri for just a blink of an eye.

He had basically three options.

He could off himself.

He could storm out of the place, which, well, essentially meant offing himself in a slower, more painful and infinitely more humiliating manner.

Or he could do what he was told, and for the moment live.

It might be surprising for those who didn't know him that well, but Yuri Plisetsky was all for living. Not just existing, but living, too.

The decision could not have been simpler.

“You know,” he finally said. “That... doesn't sound so bad.” 

***

The next couple weeks made a few things clear to both respectable hobbit and forced-to-retire figure skater. 

One, there had been no Barcelona in this here place. Neither were St. Petersburg or Moscow or Vladivostok or Archangelsk. Or Russia, or Japan, or China or the United States, or literally any other recognizable place-name in his dictionary. In fact, if he could trust the midget's atlases, this was another world altogether. And out of the window went his hope of getting home any time soon.

Two, most of the creature comfort Yuri had grown up with was no more. It was like he'd taken an extensive holiday to the countryside of Oryol or the less industrialized cattle-farms in Ryazan, or a million other places where industrialization had yet made its mark upon the largest country in the world. No computer. No smartphone. No internet. No social media. Hell, there was not even anything more modern than a stove and chimney. 

In a way that was good. Social media had a way of making you too happy, or too upset, or too curious, or just plain too  _angry_ to function well. Of course there were those who were just too  _happy_ to ever see that side – the Thai airhead, for instance, or Victor, the idiot. 

Two, the hobbit seemed to be either a reincarnated version of both Katsudon _and_ his family. Three meals a day? Pah, try seven. Yuri peeked into the fellow's larder once, and saw within it enough provision for roughly half an army division, and continually restocked every other day to boot. Previously Yuri could not imagine someone or something more food-centric than the Japanese pig, but here he was – the fellow even thought 'fat' was a compliment rather than an insult!

In fact Bilbo even asked whether Yuri came from a land of starvation (which might have been true once upon a time – he never bothered reading much history nowadays) and made sure to pile his plate high at any time he could. It was almost a losing war Yuri was waging against the irresistible force of  _gaining weight_ .

Which led to the fourth point.

In this here place, there might be no use for Axels and Lutzes and Salchows any more... but physical strength and dexterity had never grown out of fashion. 

For instance, he found out that Bilbo Baggins loved neatness and would rather spend his free time keeping everything in order. And boy were there many of the sort: his large study (for his size); his equally large collection of books, atlases, records, hand-written volumes and writing paraphernalia; his sizable fortune of clothes both formal and casual (and a few exceedingly sturdy suits made with long-travel in mind left in the dust); and of course his aforementioned pantry, gigantic collection of plates, bowls, pots, pans and cutlery included (“Got a collection of very fine silverware lying around somewhere,” he had remarked. “Seems to get a little fewer every year because of... reasons.”)

Here, perhaps, it was worth nothing that Yuri Plisetsky differed from Yuuri Katsuki in one key aspect: Yuri was a closeted neat freak and would have fared exceedingly well in the army, and Katsudon was... kind of not so much.

As such cleaning the hobbit's house and rearranging things soon became a passable thing, if not fun in its own rights. Running around balancing piles of plates? Stacks of books? Small fortunes of toys and souvenirs? Yuri could do that and more blindfolded. On a skate. While doing quads. (and he would actually prefer to do so on skates than off. Funny how years of training and singular purpose could transform his instincts so). 

When there was nothing left to clean and rearrange, the hobbit would helpfully lead him into his garden. And was it a fascinating thing too! Yuri would have thought the hobbit grew everything he ate: it was less a garden for flowers and herbs and more like a self-sustained farm in and of itself. Those economists and social scientists of his world would have loved the place, what with their lectures on  _sustainability_ and  _resilient communities_ . 

There Bilbo Baggins had been growing all kinds of herbs and vegetables, from basils to lavender, from cabbage to tomatoes, from turnips to onions to potatoes of both the normal and sweet variants. There were tiny hay-filled pots kept in the dark, too, where mushrooms were grown – both the mouth-watering and the 'look, don't touch' kind. 

Yuri liked the gardening boots and gloves quite a bit less than the rest of the stuff indoors, though he was not entirely inept. Grandpa's stories had brought to his mind a time when everyone was either farming or working in factories, and tools were no stranger to his hands as they would have been to, say,  _Katsudon_ – the pig would have had issue shoveling snow of all things!

“Normally I'd leave the groundskeeping to Hamfast and his beau,” said Bilbo, “but with you around I might actually have to think of some new job for them!”

Not untrue. Being a housekeeper, Yuri had been thinking of late, wouldn't be so bad. It gave purpose. It built character. It took his mind off things, and that was the most important part. 

Though often enough it didn't work out very well. 

It was not the isolation that bothered him so much. Nor the new environment. Nor the homesickness. He'd had plenty of experience dealing with those, and more. He was, after all, a young man molded from a young age into a competitive skater. Part and parcel, that sort of thing. 

True, he missed his grandpa dreadfully, and with it came a kind of haunting regret that nibbled and nibbled away at him. He wouldn't admit it, not out loud, and would want to keep the thought as far away as he could, yet reality would knock him upside the head every now and then: He was lost in the literal sense, far from home and not bloody likely to come back. 

_Will Grandpa be... gone... before I come back?_ He would ask himself, and then answer his own question.  _Yes._

_Is it my fault?_ The answer would come, cold and merciless as to an enemy.  _Yes._

And even that wasn't the worst part. 

No, it was that  _what do I do with my life now, and for whom_ sort of thoughts that troubled him the most. 

If someone had asked the newly-debuting skater exactly  _what_ he was skating for, his first answer would have been  _Grandpa_ . And to a lesser extent maybe,  _maybe_ for his idol(s), and that mean-

No, no, that didn't sound right. What sounded  _more_ right for a second answer, thought him, would have been  _to win_ . 

And then if the reporter had seized that second answer and followed up with another 'for what', he would have strongly considered kicking said reporter in the face. That, or shoving him angrily aside and storm off – whichever was more acceptable in the situation.

Because he hadn't know then, and he sure as hell didn't know  _now_ . He just knew there was something in him that craved victory for the sake of itself. Because it was proof, you see. Of being strong. Of having value. That, or simply to be  _seen_ as strong and valuable. 

Seemed all the same to him now – things beyond his reach. 

So when the darkness fell and the smial was quiet and his landlord the hobbit was in his study for more late reading of maps and whatnot, Yuri would retreat to a corner dark and quiet (of this sort Bag End had no shortage of). 

He didn't cry.  _That's right_ , he thought,  _Dignity, damn it!_

Instead, he would break out some of Bilbo's pillows of thick wool and thicker cotton, and absolutely go to town on them. Punch, kick, headbutt, slam, whack, thud. Might have even stuck a few knives into them, but his sensibilities would get the better of him. 

The next day he'd wake early, take a cold shower, and go about his business as if nothing had been wrong. He'd work all day, as if it was his nature to, and then come the night the cycle would begin all over again. Suffice to say, had the pillows been living, breathing things, Yuri would have committed murder several dozen times over. 

What he was looking for was an opportunity, though he knew not yet. An opportunity to put all his energy, all his anger, all his rage, all his self-pity, to some tangible thing he could literally beat to a pulp.. 

That opportunity, by either the vagaries of fate or meticulous planning from a certain  _someone_ , was to come sooner than little Yuratchka could have hoped for...

***

 


	2. Chapter 1: Crack the Plates! Yuri Plisetsky v.s. Gandalf the Grey!

**Chapter 1**

**Crack the Plates! Yuri Plisetsky v.s. Gandalf the Grey!**

 

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Yuri wouldn't have been surprised had months turned into years in their own turn.

With every passing moment his hope for a return grew less and less, and the frequency and brutality of his pillow abuse grew greater and greater. He'd missed European. He'd missed Four Continents. He'd missed World Championship. Most likely he'd be a no-show for the year's Grand Prix, to add insult to injury. And then there would be Winter Olympic the year after next, and missing _that_...

Long story short, Yuri Plisetsky was feeling like utter crap. 

But he did work, and follow instructions to the best of his ability. Which was to say, to not yell, shout or swear at the hobbit's general direction. Not that he'd need to. Bilbo Baggins had so far never stopped being supportive in his way, and – Yuri soon realized – not only in the food department.

Two months down the line Yuri found himself being ushered ceremoniously into the hobbit's study every night. There the hobbit would teach him things that would doubtlessly be useless if he'd ever get to go home, but would be rather useful if he would remain here forever. The folklore. The customs. The lay of the lands. Maps, songs, histories and several obscure tongues. How to keep books and reconcile accounts. And last but 'definitely not least', how to make the best milk tea and mushroom stew.

“Why must I read this bullsh-” he'd complained very loudly.

“Because, my good lad, you are now my charge,” Bilbo had said before he could finish the swearing, “and as are all good, respectable Baggins you want to be educated.”

Just a few days in Bilbo's tutelage had taught Yuri just how much he did _not_ know. He was terrible at Maths. Literature of any sort bored him to tears. His agility did not extend to anything more complex than repairing crude-tier household objects. Everything about him screamed 'useless bum'.

Bilbo must have fancied himself a _bogatyr_ or something similar in the crusade against Plisetsky-illiteracy, and the teenager was unsure if he was grateful. For one because his stubborn self considered teaching him new things an assault on his fragile ego by definition. And for the other, because he'd ever had trouble dealing with people who were actually nice to him, who weren't his grandfather.

Bilbo did not care. Or at least that was Yuri's impression. It seemed almost unthinkable for him to expect repayment, not even in kind words, for the immense kindness he'd bestowed upon others. That made Yuri angry, uncomfortable and so, so confused. And wishing even more for an opportunity.

It was exactly four months since his arrival in this strange world that something genuinely dramatic happened.

***

“Where's my long pipe? Ah, there's a good lad.”

Bilbo glanced at a Yuri vanishing behind the perfectly round door of his smial, everything about him screaming boredom and/or annoyance. The boy had just handed him both pipe and pipeweed while muttering angry words about his own weight. No swear words, at the very least not in front of Bilbo, and the hobbit could appreciate that.

“And here's a good morning at that,” he said. “Come on out now, lad, some sun and green grass should do you quite a bit of good!”

“No thanks,” came the answer. “Doing the dishes.”

As it happened, Bilbo's charge had been quite taken with doing the washing of late. He had half a mind to guess the new collection of cat-shaped washing sponges his Took-side relative recently gifted him might have had something to do with it.

“Suit yourself,” said Bilbo. “Oh, and if you're heading into the kitchen? Put on the kettle and some tea for second breakfast, will you?”

“Will do,” came the equally terse answer.

Bilbo let out a sigh.

By Eru, he had gotten on his hands something of a kid without all that fuss about raising a golden-haired fauntling who'd eat his weight in food every day (not that he could not afford, quite the contrary).

It had been thus far an absolute headache.

This, he thought, was why he'd debated against getting married and having children. Because after that ten-or-so years of being lovely little things they'd grow into that phase where nothing seemed to make sense any more and they'd get mad and angry and melancholic roughly three quarters of a day, and nothing a respectable adult said would work.

Bilbo sat down on his porch, and drew in a long breath. Then he reclined back and began blowing smoke-rings, one after the other, with all the keenness such like a young hobbit-boy blowing bubbles. It was a perfect day to sit outdoors, green grass and blue sky and all, and as a matter of fact Bilbo's letter-box was brimming with correspondence – relatives near and far, friends both close and not-so-close, and several of those he could call 'business partners'.

The first letter he picked from the lot came from a certain Proudfeet, who, after the very proper habit of inquiring after Bilbo and his, immediately asked some very blunt (and therefore very improper) questions concerning the new guest staying over at Bag End. Bilbo sighed, and tossed the letter into the same place he'd put the last two-score letters asking the same: the garbage can.

The second was less irritating, as it came from Bilbo's favorite cousin Drogo. The poor lad, as it happened, was in the middle of a terribly emotionally costly courting with Primula Took, his _other_ favorite cousin. Bilbo made a few mental notes on what would be both proper and helpful to tell the poor lad, and discarded the letter to the 'read' pile.

He was in the middle of going through the third letter, concerning his recent purchase of yet another load of Big People-size clothing from the Men of Bree-land, when he heard an unfamiliar rat-pat-pat of leather soles upon cobblestone coming from the general direction of Bagshot Row. 

Bilbo looked up from his letter. There, walking towards the front of Bag End, was an extraordinary old man. The hobbit stared at the newcomer, uncertain at first whether he was really heading his way.

He was. He, and his entire panoply: conical hat, grey cloak, silver scarf, huge boots and huger beard and eyebrows.

Bilbo put away his pipe, and at once began considering what to say as the master of the household. He finally went with the tried-and-true “Good morning!”

The old man regarded Bilbo with a fond look in his eyes. “What do you mean?” he said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is morning to be good on?”

“All of them at once,” said Bilbo. He had half a mind to invite the old man to sit down and share a pipe, because that was what gentle-hobbits would do for guests invited or otherwise, with the exception, of course, of boys obviously too young to smoke.

But then he heard what sounded very much like a stampede of wild beast echoing from his kitchen, followed by a loud yelp.

“Oh. Bless me,” he said, his voice filled with dread. Perhaps asking Yuri to put on the kettle was not the wisest thing he had done on this fine morning.

The old man narrowed his bright eyes. “Something seems to trouble you, I presume?” he said.

“Apparently something in my kitchen has had a disagreement with the rest of it!” said Bilbo, and he was genuinely in a hurry. “Good morning, indeed, my dear sir, but I have to go.”

Bilbo did not have to go anywhere. Out from the front door leaped a very, very flummoxed Yuri, face blanched and mouth throwing out expletives like they were going out of fashion.

“Fucking fuck on a fuckstick!” Yuri's eyes met Bilbo's, and he squeezed out a final “Fuck!”

Long did Bilbo stare at his charge in disbelief. Such language! And in front of a stranger, no less! No, no, no, this wouldn't do, he thought, and then turned back to the stranger. Bilbo had never felt himself more embarrassed and apologetic before.

“G-good sir,” he said, “I _am_ sorry, my charge here is... rather excitable and coarse of languages, though he means well and-”

“Interesting... application of Westron,” said the old man. If he had been flabbergasted, offended, shocked, befuddled, confusticated or at all out of his elements, he did not show it. Not that Bilbo had much mind left for the wizard after that matter-of-protocol apology. His own embarrassment aside, Yuri looked like he was going to faint.

“Yuri, Yuri, my dear lad,” he said. “Calm down, calm down, look me in the eye, and tell me what happened.”

There Yuri stood, face bewildered, hands balled into fists and there was that spark in his eyes like he had half a mind to punch the nearest sentient object. But then there was also that glint of guilt, like any other child would have after committing something they knew would get them scolded badly. Right then Bilbo didn't know what worried him more, that Yuri was in a mess, or the fact that he'd done something so bad it made _him_ into a mess.

By Eru and Yavanna and whichever Valar who happened to be listening, what was a plain, quiet hobbit to do? 

Bilbo drew a deep breath, and assumed the kindest look he could muster since his last cousin came of age. “Look, lad, it is perfectly _fine_ if you broke something,” he said. “Accidents happen, twice so in a pantry as full as ours!”

“I... fuck,” Yuri said. “Look, hobbit, I... uh... I broke a shit-ton of plates-”

At once Bilbo's kindly brows stood on ends. “Plates? What plates? Not the newly-washed plates next to the stove? Twelve inches across? White enamel? Patterns of rose and jasmine and mistletoe?” Bilbo was hoping the boy would shake his head. 

He nodded, sheepishly  _and_ furiously at the same time.

“You did  _not_ ,” cried Bilbo. “That's my mother's best china!”

“It was in the bloody way!” screamed Yuri. “And the fucking shitty carpet just slid under my foot!” 

Now it was Bilbo's turn to feel faint. 

“I believe we may have a predicament here,” said him. “I believe twice as much that I may be able to help.”

“Please, my good sir, there's nothing you need to concern yourself about!” cried Bilbo, “Like I said, accidents happen-”

“You also said that was Belladonna Baggins' best china that broke,” said the old man. “Is it too much to ask, that I should get a chance to mend my favorite hobbit's memorabilia?”

“Favorite hobbit, you said? My mother?” Bilbo said, scratching his scalp.

It was true that once upon a time his mother, may Yavanna protect her soul, used to go on all sorts of wild adventures – climb trees, wandering off, visiting elves, that sort of things. Possible she'd know all sort of people, but for one of those old friends to come around out of the blue?

“I mean, well, let me see, my good sir,” said Bilbo, turning away from his protege for a moment, “I haven't even caught your name, pardon me-”

“'Tis me who needs to beg your pardon, my good hobbit,” said Gandalf. “As I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!”

Bilbo's memory refreshed itself. “Gandalf? Gandalf?” He exclaimed. “Not the wandering wizard?”

“One and the same.”

At once the plight of his mother's fine china didn't seem as bleak as it had just a moment ago.

***

Yuri was muttering a million curses in English and Russian – and cursed himself he hadn't learnt Japanese ones while the getting was still hot.

Breaking Bilbo's chinaware was one thing. Causing the riot by (de)merit of slipping on a carpet like a pregnant pig without kneecaps was another altogether. 

Yuri had thought his brain had turned into mush the moment the pile of plates dashed against the floor. He was supposed to be the best thing in the rink! His balance had been superb! His reaction, sublime! His reflex, cat-like (and that was an understatement)! 

How had it come to pass that only four months without practice could have sunken him so low? 

Never had Yuri wished for longer and thicker hair, so he might hide his face behind it while looking for a crack to jump into. His existing mane was enough, however, to filter out most of what Bilbo and the tall, crooked, grey, stereotypically wizardly geezer were discussing. What he  _did_ catch was that the old man was some sort of magician or wizard or warlock or whatever, and he used to be rather famous in those parts before he'd left and hadn't come back around until today, and that he was quite close to Bilbo's late mother.

_Whose finest china I've just shattered. Fuck_ .

Sure enough, they were heading through the hallway with Yuri trailing miserably behind. He'd been so mad and desperate, he hadn't quite feel that dull pain on his left hip until he'd stepped back into the smial. The pain only made his desire to kick something to a pulp boil over. Somehow he managed to withhold the urge to cause an even bigger riot. Barely. 

And there it was, the scene of his darkest and most shameful defeat to date. 

It was a right mess. 

The offending rug was splayed upside down, folded upon itself. Some of the bronze and brass decorations hung on the wall had fallen down in piles – must have been when Yuri had hit the ground with all the grace of a lame buffalo. 

And the plates?

Well, the plates themselves, all half a dozen of them, white enamel and fancy patterns and all, were lying strewn all over the kitchen floor, shattered into roughly eleventy thousand razor-sharp fragments of incredibly diverse shapes and sizes. Yuri's sense of self-preservation tingled – he should perhaps thank the Almighty that one of those shards hadn't broken his skin or severed a tendon or anything even worse. 

Anyhow, for lack of better description, it was like a bizarro work of art, where everything had gone so wrong they flipped around and became brilliant again. Yuri stole a glance at Bilbo's face. 

The hobbit was unreadable.  _Fuck, did I screw up that badly or is he guilt-tripping me?_

But then his cryptic expression melted away, and his face softened. “Yuri, my lad,” he said, full of concern – and not exactly towards his plates, “Are you hurt anywhere? Any cuts or bruises?” He took one blinkless look at Yuri.

_What? Oh, that._

“Hold on just a mite,” he said, and off he scuttled through the corridor out of sight.

“Hey, wait!” cried Yuri, to no avail – Bilbo had disappeared, swallowed by that unlit part of his homestead.

Now it was just Yuri and... what was his name again? Gand-oaf? Grand Raft? Gand-daft? What was Yuri supposed to do with a creepy wizened old fart, alone in the very incriminating scene of his worst failing? Not least, when that creep was eyeing him like he was the most curious thing to grace the earth since Victor ran off into the sunset with the Katsudon? _Ach, brain, you shithead, don't remind me!_

Yuri's skin was just about to crawl when the wizard harrumphed, again with that deep, creepy, I-shall-do-stuff voice. It was all he could do _not_ to jump and shriek (like that last time Milla saw a rather large spider crawling across the bathroom door).

“Now that is either a very lucky fellow you are,” said the wizard. “Or you might be secretly an elf in the flesh of a Man.”

“Whatever the hell you are smoking, old man,” growled Yuri, “I want none of it.”

Just then the corner of his eyes caught a twinkle on the wizard's finger, a red hue, radiant and soothing. And all of a sudden Yuri felt... fine. As in, no longer so supremely angry he'd like to smash more stuff, or so terribly awkward he'd pull a Katsudon and hide where the sun didn't shine.

“Hobbits make wonderfully bright and sturdy chinaware,” said the wizard, “whose broken shards could maim and kill just as well as any bright sword, fell axe or swift arrow. And here you stand with nary a graze. I would raise a glass to your acuity or your fortune, or both of those at once, if Master Baggins had any of his fine red wine in his pantry.”

Yuri puffed hard; his gloomier thoughts subsiding. _That's right, I got out of the mess unscathed..._ _Suppose I haven't lost_ _ **all**_ _my touch._

That was not to say he wasn't _still_ a bit of a raging bull seeing red, though. “None of you business,” he said. He would have affixed an 'idiot!' to the end, but one look at that eerie gnarled staff (and recalling his grandfather's menagerie of fairy tales detailing _what_ would generally happen if you push a _Baba Yaga_ too far) reminded him of the wisdom of silence.

“Well, it might be none of my business, or it would be yet mine,” said the wizard. “There is still plenty of time ere this tale come to an end.”

Then he turned away from Yuri, and picked up the kitchen broom nested at the far corner of the room. He bent over and began sweeping the floor, gathering all the fragments he could find into a single pile. The sound of broken pottery scraping against wooden flooring was pure torture, and Yuri cringed with every sweep. The old man's expression didn't change a bit.

Just then Bilbo rushed back into the kitchen, his hands heaving a covered basket that smelled like wet herbs and 'miracle' balms. “Now pray tell me, lad, where does it hurt?” he said, and produced a jar of icky-looking salve.

Blood rushed into Yuri's face as the realization of what Bilbo intended to do hit him. The bruise was on his lower hip – no getting there without taking his pants off!

“What? No!” he cried, and meant it.

Miraculously, the old man seemed to agree. “I should think, my good Mister Baggins,” he said, “that medication is to be applied in the peace and quiet of privacy, and not in such riotous sight of unseemly debris! Let us handle the plates, like I said I would.”

Yuri did not know whether it was his embarrassment or the wizard's word that tipped the scale, but finally Bilbo sighed and put away the jar. “O very well,” he said. “The plates it is, then?”

Then Gandalf stood before the pile, and muttered words – not words, but _words_ , as in 'what is this silly gibberish?'. Yuri had little time to ridicule, however. His eyes widened: there the fragments came to life, and found one another, and glued themselves back to one another, like that thing on Youtube where they'd film in slow-motion a glass being smashed against the floor and then show it in reverse. In some fifteen seconds flat the dishes were whole again, stacked in a pile on the ground. Dusty and in urgent need of washing, yes, but whole, and that was all that mattered to an overjoyed Bilbo.

“Thank you, my good sir, thank you!” he said.

“Pray don't mention it,” said Gandalf, tipping the large cone that was his hat. “Merely a parlour trick, and not what I would recommend on a real adventure!”

In about five seconds flat Bilbo's joy just vanished.

“Certainly I should think the same!” he said, “Adventures; nasty disturbing uncomfortable things – make you late for dinner! I can't think what anybody sees in them...”

***

“Why the hell did you invite the geezer to tea?”

“First, my lad, language,” said Bilbo. “And second... well, beats me, I suppose. It seemed a good idea at the time.”

Yuri nursed his sore backside. At the end of the day, he'd put on the balm himself. Now he'd smelled like wet cabbage, his hip still having one of those dull aches that probably wouldn't go away in a few days, and he couldn't be more grateful neither Victor nor Mila were around. He'd never live the incident down.

There was only one confusing thing to him. Bilbo had invited the wizard to tea the next day. That was after making absolutely clear he wanted nothing the wizard was selling. This was no longer politeness. This was not even courtesy any more. No, this is Katsudon level of I-am-so-worthless-please-walk-all-over-me.

Or so Yuri thought.

Right then Yuri wished there was some kind of bathroom door to kick open. _Yeah, and it seemed a good idea at the time when Victor went AWOL._

But he said nothing of the sort. He only rolled his eyes really, really hard.

“Don't come crying to me when the geezer strings you along on a – what's it he called it again? A 'most amusing and profitable adventure'?”

“I shall keep it in mind,” said Bilbo.

Yuri could only hear the sound of old pages flipping, and the chirping of night insects outside the smial. Bilbo was oddly untalkative, and had been for the most part of the night. Yuri's skin was crawling – though he'd hand the gold medal to the Katsudon on a platter before he'd admit.

“Hey, hob- I mean, Bilbo,” he said with that quiet, semi-thoughtful voice of his. “You aren't mad at me, are you?”

Bilbo lowered his reading-glasses, and gave Yuri that kind, grandfatherly smile.

“Why should I be mad for?” said the hobbit. “Apart from your language – which I doubt anyone save the mightiest of the Valar can change at this rate.” Yuri shuddered. “The plates are fixed, nobody got hurt badly, and I suppose it isn't every day I meet an old acquaintance who happened to be a wizard so much talked about. Sure, tomorrow's tea might be a wee crowded, but – like I said, you don't have tea with a wizard everyday, especially one like Gandalf.”

Yuri was unsatisfied. “Do you actually hate adventuring that much?” he asked, his voice much less acerbic than he should like.

Again Bilbo lowered his glasses. “Is that a serious question, lad?”

Yuri suddenly found the study's round window especially attractive for some reason. “Maybe?” he said. His cloak of disinterest didn't seem to fool anyone – especially Bilbo Baggins.

“Then I'd honestly say it's a personal reason,” said the hobbit, and there was that distant look in his eyes that made Yuri wonder if he'd asked a question he should not have. “I'd rather keep it to myself if I can help it.”

“Why?” asked Yuri. “Is it just because you are meant to be this... I don't know, plain, quiet folk bullshit?” His gaze snapped back to Bilbo “Honestly? That can't be all.”

The consequence of Yuri's impudence, as it happened, was tension in the air. “Alright. Very well, Let me tell you a story,” said Bilbo.

He put aside his pencil and notebook, closed the huge tome on the table, and neatly folded the map into four. Yuri swallowed hard: there the hobbit was gazing back at him for half a minute at the least. Yuri thought he didn't blink throughout the duration, and neither did the Russian youth himself breath.

Then he began. “Once upon a time, in a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit,” he said. “Not a hole as comfortable as this, not by far, but not quite so barren of comfort either. Now this hobbit was typical, and therefore, respectable. His father was respectable, and so was _his_ father before him,”

“Then this fine hobbit, as it happened, fell in love – at first sight, even – with the neighborhood troublemaker who happened to be the Thain's daughter. The line of the Thain – that's the Tooks down in Tuckborough that I've told you once – were... wealthy. And queer. In fact queerer than they were wealthy.” Bilbo reached for his pipe, and lit a match. “And that is saying a lot since you can nary find a hobbit clan wealthier than the Tooks nowadays. Their Great Smials, why, that might rival real castles and fortresses of the Big Folk even in those days when there were still castles and fortresses belonging to real kings in these parts.”

Smoke rings were steadily rising to the ceiling as Bilbo took another puff. “It took him much, much time, years if not a decade or two, before she'd agree to be his bride – not least because once every so often she'd be gone and nobody could see heads or tails of her,”

He placed his pipe next to his pencil. “She'd cross the Water, go see the elves, or go further still and get into scuffles with goblins in those lands too far East for respectable cartographers to map. And hang around with those rangers, too, the rowdy sorts from whom respectable folk would wisely keep their distances while minding their wallets and purses twice as warily. She kept the habit for a while after the marriage, too.”

“So they divorced,” said Yuri with a sigh. Sounded typical enough... for anyone who watched enough Russian TV drama.

“Oh, no, no, not at all. It was, by all means, a happy marriage. You want proof, lad? Here's the proof,” he said, thumbing at his own chest. “And here's the other proof.” He pointed at the roof of the smial. “My father built this for my mother and the wee baby in her belly at the time – me.”

Yuri groaned. Very, very audibly. “Should've known you're talking about your old man and old woman,” mumbled Yuri. “Is this taking much longer?”

Bilbo sighed. “I only wish it would, my dear fellow,” said him. “My mother, that's her picture on the wall over there,” he pointed at an oval-shaped picture-frame above the mantelpiece. “She passed away nine years ago, and my father eight years before that. But she'd stopped adventuring long before that still, and never did she tell me exactly _why_.”

“Perhaps she'd gotten old,” quipped Yuri. “Become a literal _Babushka_.” _Oh wait. Unmarried. Without children._

Bilbo neither shook nor nodded. “Or perhaps that part of her that really wanted to settle down won out. Or perhaps having a child would really take that much out of your time. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Now Bilbo stood up, reached for his delicate down-feather duster, and began brushing the picture-frames above the mantelpiece. “Either way, when she passed away – eighty-two well-lived years she'd had by then – well, she warned me against sailing off into the wilds on ill-advised adventures. So far I've lived by that advice. Life's been dull, yet safe and respectable. Dull, that is, until you crashed into my place out of the blue.”

The rebellious teen that was Yuri Plisetsky couldn't help but feel passive-aggressively insulted. “Should I be sorry?” he asked.

“No, no, no, not at all,” said Bilbo. “Big People aside, you're a good lad as any in my extended family. Just watch your manner and you'd be golden.”

“Bah,” said Yuri, turning away. His cheek was turning a little red. “A-anyway, mind telling what you're going to say to the wizard tomorrow? I'll bet my dinner he'll just try to rope you into that adventure again-”

Bilbo looked _mortified._ “Yuri, Yuri, my dear lad,” he cried. “You do _not_ gamble your dinner, no matter what!”

“Guess what?” Yuri narrowed his eyes. “I need to lose some weight, damn it!”

Bilbo's nervous chuckle segued into a cough. “And as for for what I'll say?” he said. “Let's just wait and see. If what I recall of Gandalf is correct, he never forces people to do what they don't feel like. Best he'd do is nudge them in what he thinks is the right direction. And a nudge nor two, well, that's not going to change my mind overly much, will it?”

To that Yuri had no answer but for another long groan.

***

 _Well, now, that's certainly unexpected_. _The good kind of unexpected._

Part of Gandalf had been screaming 'two for the price of one' as he scratched a specific sign on Bilbo's beautiful door. The other part, that good Gandalf who would never like to resort to ill means to good ends, had been horrified at the thought.

But the fact remained, now that he was sitting in the relative peace and quiet of Bywater and enjoying a pint or two at the Green Dragon inn, that the young boy – Gandalf's sensibilities refused to refer to the lad as a man proper – in Bilbo's household could not have been there due to ordinary circumstances. He didn't look like any man from Bree or further East, and for too long so few from Gondor or Rohan below would venture this far north and especially not to the Shire.

But one look at him and the wizard could already conclude he'd be a very promising asset in a hypothetical pinch during this adventure he had been planning. Headstrong, dexterous, nimble and most importantly, in a half-aggressive, half-familial sort of relationship with the hobbit he wished to draft. And, if Gandalf read him right, the wee lad wasn't even that attached to material things to begin with.

Those qualities, all of them, would be highly desirable in a confrontation against a dragon of all things. Yuri, for that was what Bilbo called him, would no doubt make the quest for Erebor a whole lot more complicated. And, if luck were to be on Gandalf's side, a whole lot simpler as well.

The only thing he truly worried about at that moment was how Thorin would react. He'd already have enough trouble persuading _The King-in-Exile Under the Mountain, Mighty is He_ to give a hobbit burglar a chance. A barely adolescent Mannish boy with an attitude problem?

_Things would get more explosive than those firework I showed off at Gerontius' Midsummer's Eve parties..._

***

 


End file.
